Close to the Ground
by SLWalker
Summary: Slice of life character pieces from the people of the U.S.S. Enterprise.
1. Not Too Soon

A series of Star Trek stories which are essentially slice-of-life, general tales.

* * *

**Title:** Not Too Soon  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing:** Sarek/Amanda  
**Timeline:** 2232  
**Disclaimer:** They all belong to Paramount, not me.  
**Notes:** _This was for KlingonVulcan -- Sarek reflecting on how fatherhood didn't quite turn out how research suggested. __I decided to write what I know... which is, of course, toddlers. _

--

When it had been officially confirmed that his wife was with child, Sarek had immediately started familiarizing himself with the duties of fatherhood. His first course of research was about the most basic of necessities; nutrition, proper clothing, toileting, potential infant illnesses or injuries, everything that would insure that the newborn would be cared for in the most thorough means possible.

His second course of research was about child development. The milestones he could expect the child to reach, and at what age the child would reach them; the most well-researched methods for raising a Vulcan child in a way that would insure success. What games of reason to introduce at what age, what the best way was to provide a safe, stimulating environment where the infant's natural curiosity could be fostered without undue risk.

Sarek had been confident, when Spock was born, that he would be entirely prepared for any course of events. He had researched everything of even partial relevance to child-rearing, determined to make no mistakes.

"I cannot _wait_ until you go to bed," Amanda was saying to their son. Her hair was disheveled, and there were faint dark circles under her eyes. Despite that, however, there was a look in her eyes that Sarek had come to recognize as exasperated good-humor.

"Nooooooo!" Spock replied, a loud, wavering, happy squeal, as he turned and ran on still-awkward legs. None of the appropriate clothes Sarek had so carefully researched adorned his form; the one-and-a-half year old ran naked without shame.

Sarek had just returned home from a day in his office, and took stock of the scene that had become worryingly familiar. Several pots and pans were laying on the kitchen floor, some of them nested and some of them just strewn around. There were also a number of utensils, in a configuration that had no discernible logic, to go with them. Several cabinets were ajar.

In the sitting area, Spock's toys were likewise everywhere. Logical toys that were meant to appeal to his senses; puzzles that were intended to develop his problem-solving skills, mess-free drawing boards meant to foster his creativity. None of those seemed to be used for their intended purpose. Instead, Spock would take them and attempt to use them as a ladder with which to climb and reach things that were put up specifically to be out of his reach.

When Sarek had researched, no texts had mentioned this chaos. No article warned that a new toddler's favorite, and sometimes only word would be 'no!' No amount of reading could have prepared him for this.

Now that the threat of bed had faded, Spock came around the corner of a chair with a pre-lingual sound of joy, crashing whole-body into Sarek's formal robes and then clutching them so that he wouldn't fall. Then he looked up at his father with a wide, unabashed smile and sighed happily.

There were many times when Sarek felt his control being tested, beyond anything he had ever quite expected. Moments where he knew that, if he allowed himself to, he would get intensely frustrated with the sheer chaos that seemed to reign from the time Spock opened his eyes, to the time he fell asleep. Amanda sometimes reflected that frustration, as she chased their strong, young son around the house in an attempt to clothe and diaper him. Sarek was amazed at her patience, and considered it extremely admirable.

He rested a hand on the top of his son's head, and looked at his wife, defaulting to ancient wisdom in face of the trials they were currently facing. "This too shall pass."

But even in her obvious weariness and exasperation, he also understood when she replied, "Hopefully not too soon."


	2. Mothers

**Title:** Mothers  
**Rating:** G  
**Characters:** Winona, Amanda  
**Timeline:** 2233  
**Disclaimer:** They're all Paramount's, not mine.  
**Archive/Repost:** Sure, just lemme know where.  
**Notes:** _Prompted by Anna Amuse, off of the word 'carriage' and it turned out coherent enough to post. Winona Kirk, holding her eight-month-old son at a diplomatic function of some sort, gets to share a moment of motherhood with Amanda, long before that's significant._

---

The ceremonies were over, and the reception was in full swing. Winona stayed on the sidelines; she would have probably gone into the fray, just to be near George, but with Jimmy in her arms it was nearly impossible. At times like this, she wished she'd brought a carriage, or even a stroller.

It was a beautiful night, though. Warm, even a little humid, with the smell of the gardens close at hand and filling the air with a sweet scent that made her nostalgic for the wildflowers she used to collect as a child.

She knew George would be over just as soon as he managed to disengage himself from the people who all wanted a piece of him right now. In the meantime, she could wait.

"It's a beautiful night," a woman's voice said, and Winona turned her head to find the speaker. She was a slim, pretty woman; dark hair, blue eyes.

"Yes, it is," Winona replied, with a smile, looking back out into the darkness. "Are you here with someone?"

"I am," the woman said, then took a deep breath of the night air. "How old?" she asked, a question that mothers nearly always asked that way. People without children tended to ask, "How old is your son?" But mothers always seemed to only ask, "How old?" and other mothers recognized it.

"Eight months." Winona smiled proudly. Jimmy had been quiet all evening, wide-eyed and awed by everything. Likewise, though, he was at the age where he was perfectly content observing it all from his mother's arms.

The woman nodded, and her expression when Winona looked back at her was warm and genuine. "What's his name?"

"James." There was a brief pause, then Winona had to chuckle. "A very heavy James right now."

The woman's smile turned sympathetic, and Winona was even more certain then that she was a mother. "May I?"

It was up in the air whether or not Jimmy would be willing to nestle into someone else's arms for a few minutes to give hers a break, but Winona nodded and offered the baby over. And he went willingly enough, though he stared at the woman's face intently, maybe a little warily.

"Hello there, James," the woman said, holding him as if it were second nature. After a few moments of pondering on the situation carefully, Jimmy offered a smile back. With babies, it was all or nothing -- he went from curiosity to a wide grin, then right back to curiosity, all in a moment.

Winona appreciated the break, and let her arms rest at her side for a moment, watching the interchange. There was a brief look of something... almost like sorrow, on the woman's face for the briefest of moments. "My name's Winona," she offered.

The woman looked up from where she was making faces at Jimmy, obviously not caring that she looked silly. Definitely a Mom. "A pleasure. I'm Amanda."

"How old?" Winona asked.

"Too old to hold like this," Amanda replied, cradling James a little closer as he carefully started picking at the simple necklace she was wearing. And Winona understood that look; Sam was now the same way. "He's three now. I can pick him up, but it doesn't seem he's nearly so willing as he was at this age."

Winona had no reply to that; she just nodded. There was no doubting she sympathized.

There was a call towards Amanda from inside, and she looked over at Winona apologetically. "Time to go back to the socializing. But thank you."

Winona carefully took Jimmy back, chuckling, "I should be thanking you. My arms needed a little rest."

"No... no, it was my pleasure." Amanda smiled again, this time at Jimmy, and was rewarded with a smile back. And then, with one more look to Winona, a look shared between mothers, she went back inside.

Winona watched her go, then turned back to look back out at the night, holding her son.

Maybe she didn't need a carriage afterall.


	3. China

**Title:** China  
**Rating:** PG  
**Character:** McCoy  
**Timeline:** 2245  
**Disclaimer:** He's Paramount's, not mine.  
**Notes:** Eighteen year old Len McCoy, reflecting.

_For Cuppy._

_

* * *

  
_

He kept trying to concentrate, but instead found himself watching the particles of dust floating through the bands of warm sunlight coming through the window. Not because he particularly cared about the particles. It was just something to look at.

The sun had crept a good distance across the hardwood floor since he started this, and he wasn't even close to finished yet. It shoulda only taken him an hour or so, but he kept drifting off into thought.

Len managed to break himself away from it yet again, then looked down at the plate he was carefully holding by its edges, balanced on his knees. Magnolias were delicately painted under clearcoat, and the edges were a slightly worn gold. But despite the coat of dust on it, it was intact and in good shape.

They had never been used in his lifetime.

Passed down from mother to daughter, the china was old. Real old. Len wished he knew how old, but he honestly didn't have a clue. All he knew was that it had been his mother's, and grandmother's, and so on. He imagined it probably had a story, maybe some wedding present long ago or some purchase made by his less-than-rich ancestors to try to instill some elegance into their lives, but everyone who could have told him that story was long gone.

He tried to shake off that messed up, frightened feeling, but it just made a home somewhere in the pit of his stomach and refused to leave. Carefully, just like he had however many times now, he wrapped the plate in tissue paper and nested it into the heavy duty box it was to be stored in.

His dad shoulda been here for this.

Most of the time, Len didn't think about it. At least not these days. When he was younger, yeah, it bothered him more; he spent a whole lot of time in hospitals, sitting with nurses, waiting while his father did his thing. At the earliest, it had been an adventure. As he got older, an annoyance. Finally, when he was fifteen or so, his father trusted him enough to leave him at home alone.

It wasn't like he was completely unsupervised. Their neighbors and family friends all checked up on him and made sure he was all right. He was certainly old enough to feed himself, dress himself and get to school.

He swore then he would never be a doctor. It wasn't that he hated the profession, or didn't respect the men and women who did it. He even admired his father's dedication to it. He just didn't want to live in a world where there was never any time to slow down; might not be ready for a family yet, but he had always been sure he'd someday have one. Wife, kids, house. It wasn't possible to be a doctor and be a family-man. If David McCoy couldn't seem to pull it off, Leonard McCoy was sure he wouldn't have any better luck.

He swore he'd never be a doctor, but he was due to start pre-med training in three days.

Len narrowed his eyes at the stack of china plates and picked the next one up; held it carefully on his knees, avoiding looking at the banded sunlight where dust particles danced. Thought about it all; his life, his father, his mother, the china, the training.

Ended up looking at the dust in the sun anyway.

He was seventeen when he changed his mind. Walking home one late afternoon from where he'd been tutoring one of his classmates in mathematics; a long walk, ten miles or so, and about halfway through it and still in the countryside, he came across a dog dying in a ditch on the roadside. He didn't see any injuries on it, but it was clear that the brown mutt was dying.

It wasn't that Len didn't want to help, because he did. God, he did. But still he hesitated there, staring at this dying dog. Hating himself for just standing on the roadside instead of moving to help.

But the fact was... he was scared.

If he moved to help, then it became his responsibility. If he tried to save the animal and it died, he would never be able to forget it. If he did the wrong thing, he would only make things worse.

Its whines moved him; he only hesitated maybe a half a minute, if that. Then, his chest tight and his throat suddenly dry and rough, he moved.

The dog died anyway.

It died in his arms. He didn't even know what had killed it. It died a mile later, in the arms of a lanky, sweaty, clueless seventeen year old who hadn't even been sure he should have tried to save it. Who didn't have the knowledge to. Who couldn't do a Goddamn thing to change it.

After all that, he did find its family; stopped at a house along the way to use the comm and instead of calling the animal welfare agency, the owner of the house recognized where the dog was from. And he carried it back to its family, feeling even worse when they thanked him through their tears.

It wasn't an epiphany or anything. Hell, if anything, it made him even more determined not to be a doctor, not to ever be put into the situation where any life could depend on him.

But he still spent hours stopping by the library, picking up books. Told himself it was curiosity about what coulda killed the dog -- his first foray into studying medicine was veterinary medicine. He told himself a lot of things then: That it didn't mean he wanted anything to do with the medical field, that it was just trying to find some... some absolution in that moment, the moment the dog died, that he didn't want to be in that same situation again.

He started with books on animals, then the occasional book on human and xenobiology, then...

He didn't want to be his father.

Shaking himself away from it, almost fiercely, he swiftly packed up the rest of the china. His mother's china, pretty stuff that had a story he would never know. Packed it because his father never would be home long enough to remember to do it. He knew that when he left this house, it would sit empty for weeks at a time and maybe even more.

He didn't want to ever do that. Try to be a doctor and have a home and family at the same time. He knew too well that there was no way to do both right -- it had to be one or the other. Sure, Dad had talked about opening a family practice right here in town.

It just never happened.

There were too many nevers in Len's life. But maybe once he got the china packed and got out of here, and got buried in pre-med; maybe once he managed to get... confident or something, he would figure it all out.

Maybe when he got out, he would remember other things and the nevers would be forgotten. Maybe he would forget the dog, forget the china, forget that it was impossible to be a good doctor and a good husband and father at the same time.

But it all had to start somewhere.

In the banded sunlight filled with floating dust particles, Len McCoy closed the box on his mother's china.

Maybe it could begin here.


	4. Dad

**Title:** Dad  
**Timeline:** 2253  
**Disclaimer:** Paramount's, not mine, not for profit.  
**Notes:** _Written for youthculture; Len McCoy reflects as he makes breakfast for his wife and daughter. Way pre-series. Also, very bittersweet._

_--  
_

The kitchen was still cool in the predawn light. Leonard McCoy didn't turn the lights on though; just moved around quietly, getting everything ready. Made a pot of coffee. Laid his head to one side, then the other, trying to stretch the muscles of his neck which never totally relaxed these days. Outside, the sky was beginning to brighten. Inside of the kitchen, it was cool and dark.

He waited until there was enough coffee to pour himself a cup, then pulled out the eggs, the instant pancake mix, and the emphatically not instant grits. Maybe he couldn't be home when Joanna got home from pre-school, and maybe he spent a lot of time at the hospital, and maybe he wouldn't even be able to tuck her into bed, but he could make her breakfast.

Jocelyn had gotten distant again, but he'd make her breakfast, too. He knew that it was hard. But he wasn't going to be a resident forever. Eventually, he would be finished with all of his schooling, and then he could open up a private practice with normal, easy hours, fulfilling an ideal that his father had wanted and had never gotten.

As he started coordinating breakfast, still sipping his coffee, still sometimes hopelessly trying to stretch his neck enough to ease the muscles there, he let his mind roam over that. He was tired, almost always, and the personal thoughts were scattered because of it, though when he was at work it was all crystal focus. But he thought about Dad, and medicine; thought about what it takes to be a good doctor. There was no doubt that it took knowledge, but it also took skill. And with both skill and knowledge, it took compassion and decency.

David McCoy had never really gotten the chance to follow his ideal of a private practice, but he had told his son about it, and had tried to explain awkwardly. Thinking about it still hurt. Len still felt keenly the loss, the death of his father. But even more, he felt keenly the fact that he had never gotten to know that man better.

They had never been close, and now, they never would be. But once his schooling was over, he was going to spend as much time with Joanna as he could. And he would teach her how to be decent and compassionate in whatever line of work she chose. He would tell her the stories of his life, the stories that he wished he knew about his Dad.

And he would teach her how to make grits; one thing his father had taught him that he held onto.

Len wasn't nearly a chef, but he could whip up a mean breakfast. Finally, he turned the lights on, just as he started really cooking. In about ten minutes, his wife and baby girl would be up, and they would sit at the kitchen table. He'd try to focus enough to carry on a non-broken conversation. And he would make Jocelyn her coffee; she liked it with cream and sugar. Maybe she wouldn't seem so distant.

One day, he looked forward to having a long, relaxed breakfast. The kind where you sat at the table like a family, took your time eating. Went over your plans for the day. Told stories, or jokes. Eased into the day, instead of rushed into it. The kind of breakfast that he'd never quite had, though he knew what one was all about.

He smiled to himself as he cooked, hearing his daughter coming down the steps, telling his wife all about a dream she had. He'd listen to it himself when she sat down, and he would maybe tell her about one of his own dreams.

Someday, one day, they would have time for more.


	5. Here to Learn

**Title:** Here to Learn  
**Characters:** Pike, Spock  
**Rating:** G  
**Timeline:**2253  
**Disclaimer:** They are all Paramount's, not mine.  
**Notes:** _It's not a part of the Arc of the Wolf, but it does tie loosely to the story Tactics. As Spock is on the bridge, listening to Pike being a mentor, he reflects some himself. Written for RenArcher._

_--  
_

The quiet of the bridge was soothing. Even with the presence at the helm and navigation console of the Captain and Lieutenant Scott, it was still a good deal quieter than it normally was while the _Enterprise_ was underway, and Spock took advantage of that quiet in order to run some simulations of his own at the science station. Currently, he was analyzing recent changes in nearby nebulae under his own theory that increased warp travel around them had caused some surprising fluctuations in their base densities and compositions.

Most of his attention was dedicated to that endeavor; he looked forward to studying this possible phenomenon to its conclusions. Science was a discipline of logic, and Spock found it consistently challenging; if he were so inclined, he would even consider it to be enjoyable. The search for the truth, regardless of what that truth ended up being. He held no anger and didn't feel offended when one of his theories was disproved; he considered any quest that ended with new knowledge to be entirely worthwhile.

Some small part of his attention followed the Captain's and Scott's conversation; Captain Pike was acting as a mentor in this case. Spock had found him to be quite adept in that particular role. Within only months of joining this crew, Spock had come to appreciate the calmness that Pike carried himself with, as much as he appreciated the logical nature of Number One. Both were excellent commanding officers without many contrasts that could potentially lead to a conflict in the chain of command. Whether acting as Captain, mentor or explorer, Pike held true to his own value set -- he was able to tailor his approach to individuals of his crew without ever giving into false or duplicitous behavior patterns. In as such, he was able to make his crew feel as secure as possible.

His approach to Spock was a genuinely respectful one, always with courtesy and devoid of any unnecessary emotionalism. Pike listened when Spock had a theory, and encouraged his officers to be able to act and think for themselves within their specialties. In part because of this, the _Enterprise_ ran like a very well-disciplined machine.

It was not often Spock allowed himself strong moments of uncertainty and doubt, but he had them. Moments where he misspoke to a human crewmember, sometimes angering them, sometimes even seeming to hurt them with his words. It was never intentional, but those moments left him feeling shaken and wondering what he had done wrong. After a few such conversations, he had brought it up to Pike. The Captain's words were patient and soothing without being edged with pity or derision.

_"Sometimes, Spock, humans get emotionally invested in ideas, even just theoretical ones. And when those ideas don't pan out as expected, they can become frustrated and feel that they've failed."_ Pike had nodded, then. _"Perhaps you should show them another perspective -- instead of them dwelling on what they haven't found, show them what they have."_

The advice had been simple, succinct and invaluable. While some of the older scientists in his division were set in their ways, many of the younger scientists, some on their first tour, responded well. Spock remembered more than one instance where a theory worked on was disproved, and he was able to divert the attention to what had been learned by this, instead of it merely being a failure. While they had all gone through training and should have known that, Pike had been right; the emotional investment in the sciences could prove a boon, as it often encouraged harder work, but could also be a detriment. By reminding those young scientists that they had indeed found something valuable by proving what a theory was not, he was not only able to keep them on track, but also ease the interactions between himself and them.

He listened to Pike mentoring Scott now, even as he still worked himself; a different approach, more firm but also more gentle at the same time, and Pike had the same words for the engineer that he once gave to Spock.

"...you're here to learn."

_"Indeed we are,"_ Spock thought, and felt the peace of the nearly empty bridge.

And the same peace within himself.


	6. First

**Title:** First...  
**Rating:** PG, language  
**Character:** McCoy  
**Timeline:** 2254  
**Words:** 607  
**Disclaimer:** McCoy and his family belong to Paramount. Not me.  
**Notes:** _Sometimes, you have to survive what happens to you in what everyone claims to be 'everyday life', too._

_--  
_

The reflection in the glass was... frankly, pathetic.

Real pathetic.

Len McCoy couldn't find it in himself to care much, though. Yeah, he looked like Hell. Yeah, he was hungover and the bright, hazy Georgian sunlight was making it even worse. No, he hadn't bothered to shave in... in... a couple days? At least he managed to get a shower this morning. Stood in the stream of lukewarm water, feeling like he was getting a washdown in the Goddamn morgue like a corpse.

He wanted to be angry again. At least when he was raging, he could feel it fueling his strength. But then the anger would piss away, just like the booze, and he'd feel little more than apathetic exhaustion, the kind that went into some deep spot inside of him that medical science could never define.

He wanted to be angry at himself, for falling into this cycle. He wanted to be angry with Jocelyn, for pushing him into it in the first place. He wanted to be angry with his father, for putting it on him to pull the plug, the catalyst for all of it.

_First, do no harm._

Some doctor he turned out to be.

Len rubbed his hand over his face, but he couldn't drag himself away from the reflection. Not because he wanted to see it, but because he didn't have the strength. He knew that he was probably clinically depressed by now, and that surviving that meant getting help, but still he didn't seek it. He looked into a bottle, or into his work. Pity on both sides -- his own self-pity in the bottom of the bourbon, or everyone else's at the hospital.

Eventually something had to break, and eventually something did.

He passed the playground that they used to take Joanna to on his way home the day before, the one where he pushed her on the swings, the one they shared a picnic at, and he saw the image of his family, and saw his little girl with her pigtails bouncing, his daughter that his wife took away in their divorce, all the while spitting out meaningless words about how this was the best thing for them...

...and he went home, and he tried to drink the hurt away, and the rage that came with that pain buried in some place that no surgery could ever touch; went home and howled his anger and sobbed his grief and broke things.

When the sun rose, it came with a hangover and more depression, and the certain knowledge that he had only two choices now:

Live or die.

Staring into his own reflection, he didn't even know which one it would be. To live, he had to get away from the hurt, at least long enough to get his bearings. He couldn't survive when he was near his baby girl's things, the clothes packed in dressers that still smelled like her, a scent he knew from the day she was born, now fading. He couldn't survive when Jocelyn would call and update him, looking at him with those eyes filled with a sort of sorrow that only made him hate her even as he still loved her. He could not walk their roads, past the places they shared as a family, and still want to wake up each day.

He didn't know which one it would be, but the words kept haunting him, forcing him to act.

_First, do no harm._

It took him several moments to get his energy up, and then Len McCoy walked to the door of the Starfleet Recruitment Office, and went inside.


	7. Cross the River

**Title:** 'Cross the River  
**Pairing:** None.  
**Rating:** G  
**Timeline:** 2265  
**Disclaimer:** Star Trek belongs to Gene Roddenberry.  
**Notes:** Written for **maguena**, who has always been good to me. The title doesn't have much to do with the story, perse... but it fits in my mind, and that is good enough. ASC Award Winner, 2008, 1st Place - Spock.

--

He did not know why the memory came, unbidden, but he welcomed it anyway.

Truthfully, he could likely trace back through the thought processes that led to it, but as he picked up his freshly laundered uniforms from the ship's laundry on Deck 8, he just focused on the memory itself. Later, perhaps, he could go back and follow the paths that led to it.

She was kneeling in the kitchen, humming, in a beam of screened sunlight from the window. In her hands was a delicate and ancient piece of fabric, which she carefully washed in an old bucket. The soap suds sloshed over the sides, but she didn't seem bothered by the fact that she would later have to mop it up.

He had wondered then why she simply didn't take more care to not slosh soapy water over the sides of the bucket, in order to save herself the later effort of mopping it up again.

The suds were iridescent in even the screened light, and the tune she was humming was human in origin, though he didn't know the name or the composer. He had been checking through the code of a program he had been working on, line by line, but every once in a while he paused to watch his mother washing delicate and ancient materials by hand.

He had never asked her why.

They had a perfectly functional sonic-laundry unit. She used it on nearly all of the clothing in the house; it was perfectly safe for the fabrics, and would never fade the colors. Nonetheless, once every so often, she would take certain pieces that he later understood were heirlooms, and wash them by hand in a bucket of water.

It had been many years later, when he had more contact with humanity, that he had come across a painting on a trip to a museum. He had thought, perhaps, that he would understand humanity better if he looked more closely at their culture.

The painting was of a woman, kneeling in sunlight, washing clothes. Her hair was pinned under a bonnet; her apron was damp. And even as he went through the details; the brush strokes, the artistry, the use of color and light and contrast, he could imagine for only a moment that he could hear his mother humming.

Many years later, he walked into the quarters which were as arid and red as the world he had once called home, and put his uniforms away. And he remembered.

Spock had never asked her why.

Perhaps now, however, in some way he understood.


	8. Decimal

**Title:** Decimal  
**Rating:** G  
**Pairing:** None  
**Timeline:** 2266ish  
**Disclaimer:** They're all Paramount's property, not mine.  
**Notes:** _Cheer-up fic for **infiniteviking**! Tax season is still strong in the 23rd century. Not sure how great it is, but hey!_

--

The computer lab was very quiet when Spock walked in. Deep into the ship's night, the graveyard shift tended to be essential personnel only, and those often most suited to working those hours consistently. There were a surprising number of non-humans on the midnight watches; Spock had found, much to his interest, that even after years in deep space in some cases, humans were still rather strict in adhering to the diurnal cycles of planet Earth. He had no such requirements himself -- in fact, he preferred to do a good amount of his focused research at night, when he would not be disturbed from his concentration.

The computer lab was not empty this evening, however. Spock stopped immediately inside of the door, taking measure of his captain.

Captain Kirk was sitting at one of the terminals, a large carafe of coffee next to him, as well as a mug in his hand. He looked disheveled; his hair was a mess, and there were dark circles under his eyes. The sight of his friend in this state disturbed Spock somewhat, but he leapt to no conclusions. After a moment, he stepped over. "Captain. Is something troubling you?"

Kirk looked up with tired eyes, and then smiled in a manner Spock had long since identified as mildly self-deprecating. "Nothing of universal importance, Spock. I'm just having a hard time trying to file my taxes."

Spock looked at the screen for a moment. While credits had replaced money as the primary currency, taxes were still a fundamental part of funding the Federation. In as such, those who earned above a certain amount were required to file an income tax return once a year. If he recalled correctly, the final date it had to be transmitted by was... in less than two hours. His, of course, had been done the same hour that filing had opened, several months before.

"According to this, I owe more than I actually make in an entire year!"

"Did you use the input forms?" Spock asked; while he preferred to work out the mathematics of his taxes on his own, the Interstellar Revenue Service provided calculators and forms to help those less inclined to take that route.

Kirk nodded, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "Somehow, it still comes up like this."

There was a long moment while Spock considered the wisdom of the next decision he had to make. But finally, he spoke again: "I would be willing to go over your input values."

Kirk nodded again, obviously trying to muster some level of enthusiasm, though he merely looked more tired and defeated. He got up, taking his coffee mug and leaving the pile of data disks containing his taxes. Spock sat down at the terminal, about to go through the disks and find where the error was, but after one long look at the screen, he found the answer.

He raised an eyebrow and moved the decimal point once space on the primary value of the captain's annual earnings statement, then hit 'execute'. "While I will check the rest of the variables, this now says that you will be due back one hundred and sixty four point five credits."

There was silence. It went on so long that Spock was forced to look away from checking the rest of the captain's taxes to see why.

Kirk was standing there, just staring at him. His eyes were oddly shiny. His hand trembled slightly as it clutched the coffee mug.

"Captain?" Spock asked, concerned.

That broke Kirk's stance. He carefully set the mug down on a table, then looked back at Spock, his stance strangely stiff and that liquid quality of his eyes growing more pronounced. He cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded rough. "Thank you, Spock. I... I believe it would be in my best interest, and in the interests of the _Enterprise_, if I retired."

"I shall transmit your tax return as soon as I have finished verifying the data," Spock replied. After the door closed behind the captain, he was certain that he had heard a sound not unlike what a wounded animal would make in the corridor.

But when he went to check, he found no one there.


	9. Magnanimous

**Title:** Magnanimous**  
Pairing:** None**  
Timeline: **2267**  
Rating:** G  
**Disclaimer:** Paramount's characters, though they don't get nearly enough love from Paramount. Not for profit.  
**Notes:** _Ha! A Chekov story, written for my little sister (**KRWalker**), prompted by the word 'magnanimous'. Really short. Humor._

_--  
_

His quarters were a disaster. Actually, 'disaster' would be too weak a word. It was like the chaos theory incarnate. If it weren't for the fact that he'd actually stepped back out and double-checked the name plate to make sure he really was in his quarters, Chekov would have thought that he had stepped into another dimension.

The only thing that made total sense about it was the fact that, at the center of the chaos, was Sulu.

He stepped around a dash of white powder on his carpet, staring wide-eyed at the contraption in the middle of his living area. It looked disturbingly like a stove. Disturbingly like one of the galley stoves, no less.

As if to forestall any explosions, Sulu put down what looked like a gooey blue rope and smiled. "I promise, I'll clean it up... in a few hours, you'll never even know I was here."

Chekov just stared. He had a galley stove in his quarters. He had goo on his table. There was white powder on his floor.

"I would have used my quarters, but it's a lot farther to drag the stove..." Sulu paused, waving a hand towards his friend's face, and was rewarded with a blank look. Then he smiled again. "Don't worry, when I'm done, we'll sneak the stove back--" Chekov thought there that he hoped he wasn't included in the 'we' part of that statement. "--and the end result will be a whole month's worth of salt water taffy."

After another very long moment, Chekov blinked once or twice. "I am going to the rec room. For a few hours."

Sulu went from smiling to positively beaming. "I knew I could count on you to be magnanimous."

Chekov shook his head, slowly, then turned and walked out of his quarters. He could have probably blown up, but it wouldn't have done any good. He had already learned to resign himself to the fact that his best friend would have fifty hobbies at once, and forty-nine of them would be messy.

He only hoped that Sulu realized that the chef would be far less magnanimous than he was.


	10. A Little Sympathy

**Title:** A Little Sympathy  
**Rating:** Barely PG; one very mild cuss word  
**Characters:** McCoy, Spock, Kirk  
**Prompt:** scruffy by infiniteviking  
**Disclaimer:** All Paramount's, not mine.  
**Notes:** _This is a bit of kind of silly, fluffy humor. It also may explain why Spock was so zen later on with the space hippies._

Shore leave had been surprisingly pleasant. McCoy wasn't sure that he would enjoy it, but it had surprised him. It was a routine stop, in this case -- an average Earth colony on a nice world called Chara II. The planet's original ecology had been pretty much wiped out by Earth native species, a mistake made when colonization was still in its fledgling steps well more than a century ago, and so going down there was a good deal like going home.

Jim and Spock had both gone, but Jim ended up having to return to the _Enterprise_ early to handle the subspace calls about their last mission, most of them looking for an explanation for his actions then. Spock, on the other hand...

If someone would have told McCoy that he would have been able to spend that kind of time in Spock's company and not lose his mind, he wouldn't have believed them. But that was exactly what had happened.

Of course, the fact that Spock had been arrested might have had something to do with it.

Chara II had likewise somehow become home to a good number of alternative lifestyles. Put more succinctly... hippies. The planet was crawling with hippies. Whole towns full of them had sprung up and had established their own little governments... well, McCoy wasn't sure there was anything particularly government about them, but he had to call them something. And Spock had broken the law.

_"I fail to see the logic in singing songs to the sun as it rises. The sun isn't sentient, and therefore cannot possibly react to the gesture."_

The group of people had looked at the Vulcan with an incredible amount of pity and understanding. McCoy had wisely kept his mouth shut. He was a human... well, really, tried to be an 'anythingitarian' and so long as the people were healthy, happy and not committing any atrocities or causing anyone pain, he saw no problems with their lifestyle. Sure, he personally thought that the amount of singing, dancing and otherwise was a little silly, but everyone in the community was there by their free will, and they really were healthy and happy.

Spock, who did believe in IDIC, was still not very good at keeping his logical conclusions to himself and proceeded to elaborate on exactly why he found these rituals to be illogical and a waste of energy and resources. So, the hippies arrested him.

Spock also happened to believe in respecting the law. He was stuck good.

For the next three days, the Vulcan had to adhere to the laws of the community. No bars or cells, he simply had to serve out his sentence by being a participant in the community and obeying the laws of it. Those laws insisted that he bathe in a stream, not shave or otherwise defile his natural appearance, wear clothing that was drawn respectfully from the land, and sing and dance in accordance to community law. He worked in the community's gardens. He went with the aura-readers to look for trees that could be harvested for lumber. And even though McCoy knew that it probably rankled him, under his calm exterior, Spock sang right along with the rest of them.

McCoy, of course, could not help but stick around. He might have gone and visited other places on Chara II, but Spock living the hippy lifestyle was too much for him to resist. He didn't even have to say anything -- after a few hours of Spock looking up to see his grinning face, Spock had done a very good job of not making eye contact with McCoy thereafter.

After three days where Spock had lived the hippy lifestyle, he was released with a full-pardon and many warm hugs. That was almost as good as the initial arrest.

They beamed back to find a rather harried looking Jim Kirk waiting for them in the transporter room.

The captain took a long look at his first officer in sandals, and a five o'clock shadow that was just starting to really come in good, wearing brightly colored woven clothing and flowers around his neck. "You're..."

McCoy beamed a smile. "Looks pretty peaceful, huh, Jim? Sure, he's a little scruffy, but I think this shore leave was an enlightening experience for Mister Spock here."

Spock cleared his throat, quietly, a sure sign of his discomfort. "I am... relieved to be back aboard. If you would excuse me, I would like to change into my proper duty attire."

"Sure," Jim said, though he was still staring at Spock like he couldn't quite believe it. It was only after the vulcan left that he looked at McCoy. "Do I want to know what that was all about?"

McCoy took a deep breath and let it out in a happy sigh. "You don't wanna miss it."

And as they left, and McCoy proceeded to tell the whole story, the thought occurred to him that the next time Spock encountered hippies, he might be a little more sympathetic, or at least appear to be. Of course, when he thought that... he never did realize that it would come back to bite him in the ass.


	11. Maps, Rules and Moderation

**Title:** Maps, Rules and Moderation  
**Rating:** G  
**Timeline:** 2267  
**Characters:** McCoy, Kirk, Spock  
**For:** infiniteviking  
**Disclaimer:** They belong to Paramount; the berries belong to nature.  
**Notes:** _Written in a prompt-trade with Viking, this is definitely humor, though not quite crack. McCoy and Kirk get lost while Spock is doing geo-survey on a planet._

_--  
_

"I thought you were bringing the maps," McCoy said, and didn't bother holding back any of the irritation or exasperation in his voice.

In true, time-honored form, it rolled off of Kirk's back like water. "This planet is covered in geo-survey teams. We're not going to be lost forever."

Neither had anticipated that the crystalline veins running through the bedrock underfoot would disrupt their communicators and render them completely useless. Nor had they anticipated losing sight of Spock and the others. In truth, neither of them particularly needed to be here, but after being aboard ship steadily for quite awhile, they'd tagged a long for a breath of planetary air.

Geo-survey was usually left to science ships; actually cataloging, categorizing, mapping and exploring planets in their entirety took years, and in some cases even decades. However, the _Enterprise_ happened to be in the vicinity, and was ordered to spend three days adding onto the database of knowledge gleaned so far about this particular world. A small additional contribution to the body of knowledge.

Not surprisingly, Spock was in his element. McCoy would even swear that the Vulcan was happy, though it would be hard for an outsider to notice. Regardless, he did seem to have a slightly more bouncy step as he coordinated his teams of scientists in their studies. McCoy had pointed it out; Spock didn't deny it, merely raised an eyebrow.

"Besides, it's not a bad place to be lost," Kirk was saying, prompting McCoy to look back at him from where he was standing on a large rock, peering through dense trees in the hopes of seeing a flash of blue. The Captain was sitting comfortable on another rock and was bringing a berry up to his face.

McCoy moved faster than even he thought was possible, jumping down and swatting Kirk's hand. "What do you think you're doing?! How do you know that's safe to eat?"

Kirk eyed him back, mildly. It was a look that completely defied how he actually felt; that mildness, with Kirk, usually meant the exact opposite. "Who said I was eating it, Bones? I was just looking at it."

McCoy's mouth tightened briefly as he tried to find some way of replying to that. He failed spectacularly. Without apologizing, he pulled his tricorder off of his shoulder and scanned the berry that Kirk had been holding. "Looks safe," he finally conceded, gruffly.

Kirk smirked, briefly, then took a careful bite of the berry. After chewing on it for a few seconds, he shrugged, more with his face than with his shoulders. "Not bad. Care to try a bite?"

"No, thanks," McCoy replied, turning around to head back towards the rock. First rule of being found: Staying put.

Of course, Jim Kirk never did follow the rules.

--

Three hours later, McCoy could feel his legs aching from scrambling over rocks, downed trees, ferns and just about anything else. He should have, in retrospect, been more adamant about them staying put and hoping for rescue, but Kirk had decided that there was no way he was just going to sit and wait, and set off. "C'mon, Bones," he had said, with that smirk of his, "Do you really want to see Spock's face when he shows up, like a blue-clad knight saving the damsels in distress?"

Needless to say, that had been enough to prompt McCoy to move.

"Woe is me, woe is me," McCoy said, holding the back of his hand to his head, melodramatically. "Please, Blue Knight, come rescue us."

The look he got back was more than smoky. More like an inferno.

Kirk had been munching on berries since they started walking; the forest was covered in bushes bearing them. A handful here, a handful there. Not all at once, just idly eating. McCoy had a few, but Kirk had been enjoying them on this little stroll, while McCoy was too busy cursing at every vine he managed to catch a leg in. He wasn't nearly as into nature as Kirk, and it showed. He much preferred a front porch and a swing, with a nicely-mowed lawn.

Unfortunately, while the berries had been entirely safe to eat, there was the matter of moderation. Had he not been busy tripping over things, he might have pointed out to Kirk that he was going through berries at a very non-moderate pace and should cut back.

Kirk sat on another rock, arms wrapped around his abdomen, though otherwise pride made him sit as straight as possible. They'd managed to get a handful more miles after the cramps started, but now it was clear they should likely just stop and go with the First Rule of Being Found.

"If we would have brought some maps along, we'd be onboard the _Enterprise_ right now having dinner," McCoy said, not entirely able to help himself.

"Shut up," Kirk replied, with enough bite to let McCoy know that he probably should do that. After another moment, face screwed up, Kirk gingerly got to his feet and disappeared into the bushes. McCoy knew full well that it wasn't to go berry-picking. Inferno applied to more than just Kirk's demeanor.

He was polite enough not to call out or otherwise complain any further. Instead, he peered off into the trees and waited, idly wondering how much longer it would be until nightfall and whether or not they had started walking in the wrong direction. And after a longer-than-average amount of time, Kirk came back, looking only slightly better.

McCoy absently pulled a berry off of a bush and ate it. Taken in moderation, they were pretty good.

Of course, Jim Kirk did nothing in moderation.

---

"Are you well?" Spock asked, carefully looking over his somewhat disheveled captain, a mild note of concern underlying his otherwise calm voice.

The cramps and the resulting effects of the berries had finally worn off, mostly, as the sun was going down. That left them to sit around and wait, and Kirk to shift around uncomfortably on his seat. "I'm fine," he replied, slightly more forced than not. "How did you find us?"

"I followed your trail," Spock said. "When it became apparent that you had gone missing, I began to extrapolate where you may have gone, and why you would have been unable to use your communicators. As you are no doubt aware of now, there are numerous veins--"

"Cut to the chase, Spock," McCoy said, wearily rubbing at his eyes.

"I followed the trail of recently picked-over berry bushes, and when they ceased to be picked over, I followed..." a beat, "...other markers that indicated you came this way."

There was a very long silence, and then both McCoy and Kirk cleared their throats quietly, in near unison.

"Yes, well, I think it's time to get back to the ship," Kirk said, standing up as straight as he could, considering. "I assume you've managed to work around the communications issue?"

"Indeed."

"Good. Let's get out of here."

As they were preparing to beam up, Kirk leaned over to McCoy, dropping his voice. "I have a rash I need you to look at, without commentary."

McCoy put on his best physician face and nodded. "Better grab a sample of those leaves."

Doubtless Spock heard them, but he was polite enough to pretend he didn't. He was also polite enough to fiddle with the communicator for a few minutes while Kirk retrieved a leaf and palmed it over for McCoy to slip into a pocket.

McCoy was true to his word, and didn't comment on the rash. But he couldn't resist, as Spock flipped open the communicator, saying, "Three to beam up... Blue Knight."

He was still smirking at one confused face and one irate one when the beam took him over.

It was one of the most satisfying transports he'd had in his life.


	12. Rituals

**Title:** Rituals  
**Rating:** G  
**Characters:** Kirk, Spock, McCoy  
**Timeline:** 2267  
**Notes:** _For Gumnut; Kirk, Spock and McCoy share a ritual, but it's not the one you may think. Kinda grim, but not._  
**Disclaimer:** They belong to Paramount, not me.

--

McCoy rarely joined them while they were playing chess; Kirk supposed that the doctor didn't want to intrude on the ritual. Neither he nor Spock minded when crewmen would come up to speak with one or both of them while they played, but mostly they were left alone. It was something Kirk didn't fail to appreciate, either -- the relative peace with which to play a game, and have a conversation with his friend. He usually felt more centered and calm after, even when the hours or days before they sat down to share a game had been difficult.

But McCoy was with them tonight, sitting on the side and keeping quiet. It had been one of those times; a mission that went bad, cost lives. They'd come through the other side and salvaged the objective, but that didn't make the loss of life just vanish into the haze of history.

No matter how much Kirk wished that it was that easy.

Spock seemed the most unruffled of the three, which was no surprise. Both of them, even McCoy, knew that it was more facade than fact. The science officer had lost two crewmen, in ways that would have never happened had they been given the right information, and after this game, Spock would be going back to his quarters to compose letters to their families. Kirk knew that, because he knew he would be doing the same.

McCoy would also be writing letters as the CMO; for anyone who died on this mission, and then yet more letters to those who were wounded badly enough for their families to be notified.

As he pondered his next move, in the silence of the rec hall with his two closest friends keeping silent company, Kirk realized that the ritual they were sharing now wasn't the game of chess, but the solemn duty and sad honor of writing letters to families. That in their silence, they were quietly looking for the words that they would hopefully use to explain and even try to comfort those they were writing to. That in their silence, they were quietly looking to each other -- not for words, not for sympathies, but for the simple knowledge that they all needed: That they wouldn't be performing this solemn duty alone tonight.

Deep down, unbidden, he thanked whatever good power there was in the universe that neither man would have to write a letter to his family for him.

His home was already with them.


	13. Turn Back Time

**Title:** Turn Back Time  
**Rating:** G  
**Timeline:** 2293 (Post ST:VI)  
**Character:** McCoy  
**For:** infiniteviking  
**Notes:**_ Written as a trade prompt for Viking. McCoy reflects._

--

McCoy looked out at the ship, sitting battered and tethered in Spacedock, and reflected. It wasn't the most kind of reflections -- his own image also looked back from the glass, reminding him of his age. A stay on Rura Penthe hadn't exactly helped him feel young and spry, either.

The end of the road. He knew damn well that he was indulging in melancholy, but it was impossible not to. The _Enterprise-A_ hadn't really even had all that much of chance before the _B_ was coming up on completion.

He wasn't the only one who was feeling morose. Jim had retreated from all of them, putting on a brave front. The last mission hadn't done him any good, either; facing his own demons might have left him wiser and more hopeful for the future, but it had also left him older and realizing how little place he had in it.

When Jim was messed up, Spock almost inevitably followed. He buried himself in the new treaties that were being drawn up with the Klingons, often conferring heavily with his father. Regardless, he seemed adrift even then.

Scotty worked on repairing the _Enterprise_ all the way back until she was in Spacedock, and he might have even continued, except even he must have known that there would be no more 'last hurrahs'. McCoy thought about tracking him down and getting hammered, but he doubted it would do either of them any good.

Uhura was in slightly better shape -- worried for her friends, but getting back into teaching at the Academy. Word was through the wire that Starfleet Intelligence wanted her to work with them. McCoy tried to imagine it and then realized that he could; she would likely be the best thing that happened to that organization, for that matter. She'd brook no thuggish tactics, for one.

Chekov was chewing his nails over his next assignment. It was a foregone conclusion that Sulu had asked Chekov to be his XO, but the navigator was still holding out for his own command. McCoy wanted him to get it.

That left him, and the reflection. His own, against the glass. His thoughts on the ship out there, illuminated only now with the standard lights used to show her presence. Nothing glowing inside.

He wondered where he would go, if he could turn back time. To the first five year mission? Back to when they were explorers; when they were relevant? When they mattered most?

Before that, when he was assigned from ship to ship, one long sprint to get away from his divorce?

Back to his wife and daughter?

He didn't know. All he did know was a basic, immutable fact:

You couldn't turn back time.

McCoy rested a palm on the glass for a moment, then turned around and headed out.


End file.
